


the stars are bright but do they know

by m_rosenkov



Category: Gintama
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:40:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23784031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/m_rosenkov/pseuds/m_rosenkov
Summary: It is said that only the dead see the end of war.Some nights, Tatsuma wishes he'd died.
Relationships: Sakamoto Tatsuma/Sakata Gintoki
Comments: 25
Kudos: 99





	the stars are bright but do they know

**Author's Note:**

> as always, thank you [trell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/qunlat/pseuds/trell) for the perfect title and editing through this whole fic. friend you are TOO good to me. also, thank you [kriszti](https://archiveofourown.org/users/approachingstars23), for all those late night ideas about these fools.  
> here's some sunshine tatsuma for us starving souls.

Everything changes all at once.

Tatsuma comes back to camp on a stretcher, blood soaked deep into the canvas cloth, his arm unrecognisable.

Gin’s first thought is nothing at all. Takasugi pushes him to the side, and he can see Takasugi’s hands doing that thing, balling into fists so tight his knuckles reflect stark white in moonlight. And then Katsura’s there, straight into caring mode, stemming the blood flow of Tatsuma’s arm.

They ask a lot of questions. What happened, who did it, where—Gin barely hears the answers over the screaming silence in his own ears.

It is said that only the dead see the end of war. As Gin looks at Tatsuma’s smiling face, drifting in and out of consciousness, he hopes that isn’t true. His sword is limp in his hands. The night air is cold on his skin. At some point, he must leave the fray, because he is lying in the grass, empty bottle of sake in his hands. Thoughtless. Alone.

The sky is endless above.

*

Tatsuma wakes. Somehow. By miracle, surely.

The burning in his arm is so great he almost doesn’t feel it at all.

He lies on a small hessian cot, which creaks loudly in protest as he shifts to get a better look around. It’s dark, and he’s cold—freezing, even—the scratchy woollen blanket draped over him offering no warmth. The walls droop around him, and it takes a long moment for him to realise he is in a tent, the flap fluttering in the brisk wind that whirls by outside.

He looks around slowly, noticing the maps everywhere, scribblings on loose pages, the tellings of obsession. He could not mistake Katsura’s energy, even without the man present.

A strong gust of wind rushes through the tent, and Tatsuma catches a glimpse of the world outside—flat, dry earth, leafy trees stretching away into the dark, illuminated by the silver light of the moon. And stars—galaxies, flecked by glowing dust and swirling lights—brighter than he’s ever seen before.

The sounds of hushed, angry voices bring his attention suddenly back. Two distinct, familiar shadows make their way towards the tent. Another rush of wind brings their words to Tatsuma, loud and clear in the night.

“—because _you_ are too busy playing it safe.”

Takasugi. Angry, of course—but there’s something different about his voice. It’s boiling with passion, like he needs somebody to understand, and there’s no way he’s arguing with Gintoki: Gintoki’s never played it safe in his life.

“Safe is the only way we will win this!” Katsura answers, and Tatsuma sees his unmistakable shadow pacing the space outside the tent, long hair flowing behind him. “If you go west, you will be signing the death warrant of all your men, Takasugi. Rushing into battle does not mean you have the upper hand. We are short on supplies as it is. Too many people have died, no medical equipment, we’re going—”

Tatsuma’s throat closes, heart plummeting. He can feel himself sinking, the guilt sudden and all-consuming. Low on supplies? No medical equipment? Of course, all a direct result of him. How many days has he been asleep for? How many people died because of his stupidity? Katsura said it himself: rushing into battle doesn’t mean you have the upper hand. Tatsuma knows this, knows it _especially_ when his own men are held hostage on the field.

Yet. He looks down to the bandages around his arm, frayed and bloody.

He would not change a thing.

Tatsuma goes to rise, hearing, clearly, the two still bickering outside. He wants to fix this—rush in and settle them, leave and get supplies, maybe head west with Takasugi. But his head spins and spins and his arm _burns_ , and before he can do more than move his head, cold air rushes into the tent.

Gintoki ducks under the flap, idle as always, bottle of booze in one hand and katana in the other. He’s glum as ever, and Tatsuma wonders how many nights he’s done this, hiding in Katsura’s tent to escape the bickering of his comrades.

He looks ready to throw himself on the ground and drink himself into oblivion, not even looking in the direction of the cot, but then Tatsuma says his name, and Gintoki almost jumps.

His mouth opens, almost comical, and he pauses for a wide-eyed moment, bent awkwardly to look Tatsuma in the eye. “You’re awake.” He shakes his head, and plonks himself in the dirt next to the flap. His sword sits in the crook of his shoulder, and he opens the bottle with a yawn. “Ignore them.”

It’s the first thing anyone has said to him since waking, and Tatsuma laughs at that, voice raw and far too quiet for himself.

“Ah, Kintoki! Did you bring that fer me?”

Gintoki snorts, throwing his head back and drinking the whole bottle almost in one go. No, then, Tatsuma thinks, and looks again through the crack in the tent, seeing the two commanders still at each other’s throats. The moment’s elation disappears. 

“We’re outta supplies,” he says. “Why didn’t ya wake me?”

Gintoki rolls his head, left to right. He says nothing.

“I coulda helped!” He’s trying to find the energy, he’s trying so hard, but his head is starting to fog, darkness creeping in sudden and fast. Tatsuma blinks, focusing on Gintoki, on the way his sword rests vigilant at his side. “Can’t write a letter, but, ahaha—”

“Shut up.” There’s none of Gintoki’s usual bite behind it, no malice. He repeats again, to the bottom of his bottle, voice growling, “Shut up, Tatsuma.”

Unfair of Gintoki to say that now, when Tatsuma can’t even respond, everything leaving him for the abyss. He breathes deep. His eyes start to close. He wants to say he’s sorry, turning his head to look at Gintoki, seeing him through the dark as it closes in.

Gintoki stares back at him, eyes almost sad, and then Tatsuma sees nothing at all.

*

They stay in one place for a while, keeping their camp hidden.

“You’re good at that,” Takasugi says one night, crowding angrily into Katsura’s tent. “Hiding.”

Takasugi creates his own warfare. Guerrilla movements, sweeping in and out of Amanto camps, raiding their supplies. Tatsuma thinks it’s barbaric, but before he came, years ago, he supposes this is how the Jouishishi survived.

He stays in Katsura’s tent, the medical quarter of their camp already full to the brim with wounded soldiers. Despite Tatsuma’s inability to stay awake for more than two hours at a time, Katsura seems to enjoy the company, if only to have someone there. Takasugi starts avoiding this side of the camp, or the camp altogether, always out on a raid, and Gintoki has never been one to listen to Katsura’s ramblings about troop movements, supplies, bushido.

On one of the warmer nights, when the air is filled with the sounds of drinking soldiers and cicadas, Tatsuma wakes to find Katsura passed out over his desk, hands splayed open over his maps. For a while he lies there, watching his friend—the circles under Katsura’s eyes are dark and deep, and his usually beautiful hair is a tangled mess, knotted with blood and leaves, sticking to his scalp.

Tatsuma thinks, at first, that it was sleep mumbling from Katsura that woke him, or the shouts coming from somewhere in the camp. Then he notices the presence at the end of his bed.

“Oi, wake up, idiot. C’mon.” Tatsuma cranes his neck, and sees Gintoki at the foot of the cot, softly shaking his leg. “I want you to wake up.”

It’s such a childish admission, so unlike the white demon, and Tatsuma laughs at him, unable to help it. Gintoki looks up, startled, but there’s a loose grin on his lips, and his eyes shine. In the firelight that sneaks through the tent flap Tatsuma can see his pinking cheeks, warm from alcohol.

“Whaddya doin’?”

Gintoki doesn’t answer right away, moving to Tatsuma’s side. Then he orders, “Get up,” and Tatsuma obeys without question, as always, sitting up awkwardly, careful not to use his healing arm.

Gintoki lifts his uninjured arm up, wrapping it around his own neck, and moves his hand to Tatsuma’s waist for grip. Days in bed have done nothing for Tatsuma’s already skinny physique, and Gintoki lifts him as if he weighs nothing at all. He guides him out of the tent, holding him close, and leads him around the back of the camp towards the forest.

Gintoki smells of blood and sweat and metal, and Tatsuma’s head spins. It’s the first time he’s been outside in days, and the pressing weight of Gintoki holding him up does nothing to settle his mind.

Once they are out of earshot from the camp, Gintoki says, voice oddly fragile, “Let me show you something.”

Tatsuma’s burning hot now, and not from fever, either. He could pull from Gintoki’s grasp—he can still _walk_ —but he doesn’t want to, won’t, willing to let his friend guide him. They weave through the trees, until they come to a clearing. Mossy rocks scatter the ground, dotted between ferns and shrubs, and ahead Tatsuma can see an old building—a temple, abandoned in the war.

There Gintoki releases him, and Tatsuma lets him. Without a word, he continues after him to the temple. Some wooden supply crates are stacked haphazardly near the wall, and Gintoki climbs easily over them, turning to help Tatsuma up. It’s almost depressing, really, how much strength he’s lost over the time he’s been healing. His legs ache from one step up to the next, he’s light-headed, swaying. But Gintoki doesn’t give him time to deliberate on it, pulling him up with one hand before leading him to the centre of the roof.

And then he looks at Tatsuma in a way he’s never looked at him before.

Tatsuma blinks. “Ahahaha! _Kintoki!_ Are you nervous?”

Gintoki sputters a little at that, tumbling over his words with typical outrage. “No— _why_ —and it’s _Gin_ , my hair—”

Tatsuma ignores whatever else he goes on to say, moving nearer to the edge of the roof. He looks out to the world, and almost laughs again, this time in a wholly different way. Edo sits on the horizon, its glow looming into the sky. Lights glitter and dance across unseen roads, burning orange in the centre of the city, flickering with ships taking flight. The sky above the metropolis fades from pink to purple to deep, dark blue, stars pinprick in the sky—some he recognises, some he never took the time to learn.

Tatsuma feels he could fall right into it, disappear forever into the night sky.

Gintoki throws himself down on the roof tiles beside him, startling Tatsuma out of his thoughts. He folds his hands behind his head, yawning, and kicks one leg over the other, shutting his eyes.

Tatsuma stares down at him, for too long, unable to look away. The silence stretches between them, broken only by the thrumming call of cicadas. 

Gintoki cracks one eye open, holding his gaze.

“Why’d ya bring me here, Kintoki?”

Gintoki shrugs, closing his eyes again. The redness from the alcohol has left his cheeks, and he looks calm, calmer than Tatsuma has seen him in days. “Thought you might want to get outta Zura’s tent.”

“Ahahaha!” Tatsuma sinks down next to him, wrapping his good arm across his injured one. He grins. “Zura’s losing his mind, eh? No wonder Bakasugi’s avoiding him.”

Gintoki snorts. “They’re both idiots.”

His eyes open once more, and Tatsuma could just commit seppuku at the realisation that he’s staring again, openly gawking at Gintoki. At the way his hair catches the light of the stars, and the faint grey stubble across his jaw.

But before he can say sorry—or look away, or jump off the roof and just end his stupidity right there and then—Gintoki says, voice so quiet, “You’re different when you’re looking at the stars, Tatsuma.”

Tatsuma frowns. He wants to laugh it off, but suddenly nothing’s funny anymore, nothing about this their usual foolishness. He looks up at the night, blanketed by constellations, and wonders . . . what’s out there for him. Here, on Earth, there has been nothing but death. It’s been a good run—they’ve won battles, lost them, drunk themselves blind. He’s made trades with billionaires, supplied a whole army, tried to liberate a whole country side-by-side with three fools. Tried to be free, together.

But beneath the bandages his arm burns, and pain fogs his mind. Back in Katsura’s tent, his sword rusts away.

Tatsuma lets out a sigh towards the sky. “Yeah,” he breathes, “I guess I am.”

*

They do it more than once. He looks forward to the nights. They’re quiet, the two of them just lying together on the roof, just _being_.

“I’ve made up my mind,” he says one night, staring up at the stars. “I’m going into space.”

He’s sick of death, he’s sick of war, he’s sick of the injured, the bodies, the blood, and above it all, deep in his heart—

He knows he will never be a samurai again.

“So how about it, Gintoki? Yer much too good to stay cooped up on this tiny planet.” Tatsuma looks to his hand, limp in his lap, and breathes, laying his heart bare, “Come with me.”

His only answer is Gintoki’s snore.

All Tatsuma can do at that is laugh.

*

The weeks drag on. War gets like that—sometimes, days feel like hours, moving too fast, too many dead to count, the realisation that someone is gone only coming when their tent stays empty for nights at a time. Other times, it’s as if the day will never end, sweating in the same clothes they’ve worn for weeks, dealing with the same banter, nothing new, nothing gained.

Tatsuma keeps the soldiers distracted as best he can. (It’s always been like that for him, flitting between the commanders and soldiers, bridging ground, playing peacemaker when times get hard.) His arm has healed, and he eats now—wakes on his own, too. But though he can write, shake hands, still talk his way out of hell, his sword trembles weakly in his grasp.

No one says anything. Maybe it’s better that way—or worse. But there is something wretched about staying in the camp, weaponless, without his soul at his side.

Some nights he wishes he’d died.

*

Autumn comes, bringing with it cool air. 

Tonight, Tatsuma is left with a handful of troops, staying behind as the Kiheitai and Katsura’s forces rove out on a raid. They’d left on bad terms, and Tatsuma tries not to think about it, getting the remaining men invested in a card game for distraction. However, hovering over him is the darkness, something oddly final, wholly uncomfortable.

“Wait, wait, ’ang on!” One of the soldiers—a stout, bald man, Torakichi—storms up to Tatsuma. Tatsuma is sitting in the grass, back resting against a conifer, and the man squats down, waving the pack of cards in his face. “This is only halfa deck, innit!”

“Ahahahaha!” Tatsuma grins up at him, opening his scarred hand and spreading the rest of the deck out on the grass in front of him. “Didja think the price of my deck would be that low, Tora-san?”

Torakichi glowers, but he knows the drill, dumping himself in front of Tatsuma and folding his arms. “How much do you want for the rest, conman?”

At some point the Dragon of Katsurahama had turned into _Loud Fellow_ , and now it’s just _conman_. The name makes him smile wider, all worries about Takasugi, Katsura, war, suddenly worthless in the face of a little fun.

“Now, I heard that there was a flower around here that,” he scoots closer to Torakichi, putting his hand in front of his mouth in feigned secrecy, “could get a man even your size drunk off one petal.”

Torakichi’s eyes narrow. “Y’know I don’ like that stuff.”

“Mmm.” Tatsuma scoops the cards back up, pocketing them. “But I know Kame-san over there does. Bring it to me, and I’ll trade ya these cards for it, whaddya reckon?”

Torakichi seems to think on it for a moment, then stands with a grudging nod. Tatsuma hears him muttering, “Got me searching for flowers in the bloody dark, fuck me,” as he leaves.

Tatsuma sniggers to himself, feeling the cards in the pocket of his kimono. He yawns, leaning back into the tree, and does a quick sweep of the camp in front of him to make sure nothing is amiss.

That’s when he sees him.

He’s impossible to miss, really, even in the dark. But it’s been a week since Tatsuma saw Gintoki last, and he has to do a quick double take, making sure it’s not some trick of his eyes, some dehydrated hallucination.

He stands with a too-loud laugh, and saunters over to him, mind racing with questions—where has he been, what has he seen, has he learned anything new, is he—

He stops, just steps away from Gintoki, and his thoughts freeze.

Gintoki is gripping his own shoulder, blood oozing between his fingers. The rest of the blood on him has long dried, not his own, and all Tatsuma can think is _no_ , _not you, anyone but you._

“G-Gin—”

Gintoki grumbles something incoherent, and rolls his eyes—then, louder, says, “God, don’t start calling me that now, idiot.”

“Your arm—”

Tatsuma is trying to think of the right words to say, what to do—there’s no medic here, barely any supplies—how long has it been? Is it infected? Gintoki has never been the cleanest man, and by no means the smartest—

“Oi, oi, shut up.”

“I didn’t say anythin’!”

“I can see you—” Gintoki lets go of his shoulder, waving his hand in Tatsuma’s face. The blood-iron smell hits him strong. “You’re doing that shit, thinking too much. Anyway, look, it’s fine.”

Tatsuma looks. The wound is less bad than he thought, only a superficial graze, but it’s bleeding a lot, stain spreading darkly across the white of Gintoki’s kimono. As always, Gintoki seems pissed, looking down at the wound with disgust.

“What happened?”

“Caught me off guard. With this.” He reaches into his breastplate, pulling out—of all things—a gun. He holds it flat in his palm, and they both stare at it for a beat.

Tatsuma has done trade with enough weapon dealers to know about guns. A small, clip-loading pistol, with enough projection to kill a man. Gintoki is lucky it only scratched his shoulder.

Actually, Tatsuma thinks Gintoki is lucky with a lot of things. Escaping death and serious injury seem to be a talent.

“Take it,” Gintoki says, shoving it towards him.

Tatsuma blinks in surprise. “Ahahaha . . . what? Why?”

He shrugs. “Well, I don’t want it.”

Tatsuma takes it—holds it up to the distant firelight coming from camp, turning it this way and that. It sits in his injured hand quite nicely, and—something thrums through him. Something he hasn’t felt in months. He grips it tighter, and lowers his arm.

“Listen, Tatsuma . . . ” Gintoki looks away, casting his eyes across the camp. His voice is quiet when he says, “The others aren’t coming back.”

Tatsuma’s blood runs ice cold, and he feels he may throw up, the fear suddenly all-consuming. But Gintoki shakes his head, firm, before turning around and waving for him to follow him away from the camp. They walk in silence, Tatsuma almost bursting with questions.

Finally, out of everyone’s earshot, Gintoki speaks.

“I ran into Zura on the outskirts of the forest. He said Bakasugi went west with the Kiheitai, they had a fight, yadda yadda.” Gintoki sighs, putting his hand back over his wound and pausing. They’re stopped at a lake, still water reflecting the bright silver of the moon. Tatsuma looks up at the sky, and Gintoki’s next words are an echo of his thoughts. “It’s over.”

How bittersweet, Tatsuma thinks. No one wins the war. No one loses, either. Here they stand at the end, a stalemate; two idiots left alone at the side of a lake, dressed for battle and armed to the teeth. Tatsuma could almost laugh, if there wasn’t this knot in his throat, this burning in his eyes.

In the quiet, Gintoki steps forward, and starts to shed his armour. He undoes the cloth from his head, letting it fall into the dust. Then his breastplate and kimono—he eases off his undershirt, careful to not bump his wound—then his shoes, socks, pants, underclothes.

At last he stands in front of Tatsuma, naked, no longer the white demon. Just Gintoki, bloodied, tired, worn.

The only friend Tatsuma has left at his side.

Tatsuma sinks into the grass as Gintoki wades chest deep in the cool water, the lake rippling around him, lapping greedily at the shore. He watches as Gintoki slowly washes the blood from his body, water around him darkening in the moonlight.

“Kintoki,” Tatsuma says. Gintoki turns slightly, catching his eye over the bank. “Where are ya going to go, now?” 

Then, a _fool_ , Tatsuma blurts, again, “Come with me—”

There is a fleeting second, the space of a heartbeat, in which he almost thinks Gintoki is going to say yes. But then Gintoki dives under the surface, leaving nothing but the settling rush of water and the distant sounds of camp, punctuated by Tatsuma’s breathing. He looks down to the gun in his hand, running his thumb over the grooves, the leather grip. His heart beats harshly in his chest.

Gintoki reemerges closer to shore, standing waist deep in the water. Droplets fall from the tips of his hair, and he’s looking at Tatsuma, like he’s waiting for him to ask again, daring him.

Tatsuma laughs, and falls back into the grass, looking up—always up, always at the stars. He holds the gun above him, and says, firm, determined, “I’m leaving tonight. I’m going to Edo, I’m going to catch the next ship, wherever it’s going. Ahahaha, do you think they’ll—”

He stops. He doesn’t remember hearing Gintoki leave the water, but suddenly he’s _there_ , kneeling above him. He leans down, placing his hands either side of Tatsuma’s head, hair falling over his face. It drips on Tatsuma’s cheeks, his nose, his lips, tasting of dirt and blood. Droplets of water stick to Gintoki’s eyelashes, and they are so long as he looks down, eyes searching Tatsuma’s face.

“Ahahaha.” Tatsuma’s heart is beating hard, and fast, too fast. “Kinto—”

“When you get there,” Gintoki cuts him off, grabbing the hand with the pistol and guiding it to the ground above Tatsuma’s head. He holds it there, steady. “When you get there, remember Earth.”

“Eh?” Tatsuma laughs again. Higher. Nervous. “How could I forget it? I grew up ‘ere, remember?”

“Yeah, just.” Gintoki’s grip is tight, almost crushing Tatsuma’s hand into the gun. He leans closer, breath fanning across Tatsuma’s face, warm, oddly sweet. “Come back, all right, Tatsuma? I need good men in my life here.”

And then Gintoki kisses him.

He’s powerful, everything all at once, pulling Tatsuma out of the stars, back to earth, back to him—back to them. Gintoki’s hand clenches tighter around his own, desperate, almost as if to hold him still.

As if this alone might be enough to keep him here.

Gintoki’s lips part his own, his stubble rough against Tatsuma’s jaw, and Tatsuma’s heart beats faster, faster. The lake water is cool on his lips, and Gintoki’s hair sticks damply to his face, prompting Tatsuma to brush it away—lift up his hand and run his fingers through that silver-white, the beacon of their failed war.

Gintoki pulls away, then, sudden. Tatsuma almost whimpers, but somehow he is not left wanting. Gintoki stares down at him, breathes deep, bare chest rising slowly. There is something in his rusted eyes, searching, incredibly clear.

Tatsuma can barely breathe.

“Yeah,” he manages, voice raw, wishing for truth. “I’ll come back fer ya.”

For a conman, he’s always been a terrible liar.

*

Morning comes, and Gin has not slept. Dawn stretches across the grass, the fire before him faded against the greater blaze in the eastern sky. Around the camp, the soldiers are packing their gear at his order, gathering supplies, readying to search for their commanders.

One man stops by him, backpack already on his shoulders, and asks, saluting, “Shiroyasha-san! we’re ready!”

Gintoki does not look up from the cinders of the fire, one red ember refusing to cool. “I’ll meet you soon,” he says flatly. “Don’t wait for me.”

The soldier leaves. The ember turns to ash, and Gin falls back, sprawling out in the grass. He listens to the soldiers’ retreating march, watching the sky as a ship passes above, just below the clouds.

He wonders where it’s going. He wonders where it’s been.

Hours pass. Midday sunlight pools across the camp, the earth hot around him.

Gin finally stands, sliding his katana from its sheath. He lays the saya down where the grass has flattened from his body, and stabs the blade into the burned-out fire.

They say that only the dead see the end of war.

In the end, the white demon walks towards Edo, alone.

**Author's Note:**

> also i have a [tumblr](https://mrosenkov.tumblr.com/) and a [twitter](https://twitter.com/m_rosenkov) for anyone who wants to follow my inane ramblings ♥


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